


I'm Here

by Asauna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post Reichenbach, St. Barts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:56:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asauna/pseuds/Asauna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year since Sherlock's fall, and John has had enough. He's decided to go and join Sherlock. But does he go through with it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Here

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of this picture
> 
> http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m2uqx38qum1rtem1xo1_500.png

This is it, he thought as he peered down from the rooftop, eyes touching over the sidewalk, street, and passer-byers as they wandered along in their day-to-day life. A year, it had been. A whole bloody year, and things had only become worse and worse. It started with the numbing sensation of loneliness, which even at this moment still lingered. Then, it went on to the nightmares. Blasted things. They often revolved around Sherlock, but sometimes, his old war dreams would mix with the curly-haired man and the pain would be double of what it usually was. Then the true depression: The inability to care, the lack of motivation to bother doing anything, and the seclusion. Oh, how he hated to be bothered. As of late, Mrs. Hudson as well as that damned arse of a Holmes had been keeping a closer eye on him as if to make sure he didn’t do anything irrational. 

He’d been given longer hours at the clinic to try and busy him, but it was rare that he bothered to show up, nevertheless work. It was just.. Hard to do it when there was no real reason to. Mycroft kept the bills paid, Mrs. Hudson helped keep the flat clean, and Molly would pop up now and then. Christ, even Harry had tried stopping in once or twice. But none of it made any difference to him. They weren’t what he needed; They weren’t who he needed. 

He was tired of the emptiness. He was tired of the yearning and waking up to an empty flat. He had even begun hallucinating now and then in the last two months, thinking he’d seen the ghost of that stupid detective wandering about the flat. He’d catch a glimpse of Sherlock playing his violin or working on an experiment. And just as soon as the image had shown up, it had disappeared.

John had taught himself how to keep from blinking for a long period of time, for it was when he blinked that the apparitions truly faded. 

He’d waited. And waited. And waited. At first, there had been hope of Sherlock returning, and for all of this to be a hoax, but now, he knew that there was no truth to that. It was childish to even question the chance of that happening. He saw his friend fall. He saw the blood trailed over his face. He saw those eyes, once beautiful and magnificent, dull and lackluster. 

His fingers trembled a little as he took a breath, eyes still stuck upon the two slabs of concrete where he’d held onto Sherlock to check for a pulse, his chest heavy with ache and sadness. But no, he should be happy. This was going to be for the best, and he knew it. He’d stop feeling so cold and empty; He’d stop feeling so useless and lonely. But most of all, he would have Sherlock again in one way or another. 

He took another slow breath, heart thumping loudly in his chest. His body was telling him to get down and to back away, but his mind, cold and empty, told him to go forward. And with a final sigh, he closed his eyes and started forward, arms spread out to his sides. “I’m here.” He breathed, able to feel a small breeze dance over him from behind, as if the wind were encouraging this act.

But it was then that he felt himself being pulled, forcibly, from the ledge. His eyes flung open and before he had any true idea as to what had happened, he and whomever had grabbed him had toppled over onto the sparse rooftop of Saint Bart’s. He wanted to push away the person and tell them to bugger off and to explain that this was something he had to do, but he just.. Couldn’t. For when he took note of the fabric the other was wearing, there was a sharp pain in his chest and a burn in the back of his throat.

The jacket. Oh, that jacket. That wonderfully long, silly coat that he always wore. His eyes trailed upwards a little, though not enough to see the other’s face, but enough to see the blue scarf that had always graced his friends neck despite the urgency of whatever they were up to. Only now did he process the feeling of long arms wrapped around him, slender fingers gracefully running along his back in a soothing notion. But why?

Crying. He was crying, and he hadn’t even noticed. It had been the shock of it all, perhaps, since this wasn’t the sort of thing that could just.. Happen. Without hesitation, he pressed his face into the dark fabric, fingers grasping to hold onto the cloth upon the man’s sides. The coat itself was dusty, meaning that it had been stored away for some amount of time. He’d ask about it later.

But for now, everything changed. Oh, he could feel again after all this time. And it hurt, so very very much. But he also felt elated. He was back. And this was real. He could touch and smell and see the man. He felt the other’s fingers upon him and could feel the warmth of their bodies mingling. “Sh-Sherlock.” The doctor breathed against the other, not daring to look up as if he were afraid that it would all stop. What if this was just another dream..? 

No, he knew it was no dream. He felt a chin against his head and heard a quiet sigh as the grip upon him tightened. “John.” The other man spoke in the voice that John had imagined over and over for the last year. “You’re so stupid.” The other spoke once more, his voice quiet as he continued to hold onto the doctor.

“Me, stupid. Right, that’s classic. Just shut up.” John scolded weakly, shaking his head as he tightened his hold on the other, realizing what he’d just said. “No, don’t shut up. Keep talking. Please.” He whispered desperately. 

“John, You are amazing, you are fantastic.” He spoke slowly, rubbing circles into John’s lower back gently. “You’ll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you’re unbeatable.Some people who aren’t geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others.” The man spoke gently, relaxing as he rested with doctor upon the roof.

“Alright, alright. Don’t over do it.” John whispered now, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips. It was a rather poor representation of how happy, or pleased he was.

Sherlock was back.

Sherlock was alive.

Sherlock was real


End file.
